(no subject)
Title: Helpless Even with Harry & Knitting Powertools
Characters: John, Sherlock, Harry, Mrs. Hudson
Pairings: In my head, this is John/Sherlock but can be taken as gen
Disclaimer: I'll leave Sherlock to the wonderful hands of ACD, Gatiss & Moffat :3
Summary: John assumes the worst when he figures Sherlock has his sister in the detective's room.
Inspired-ish by sadynax 's art (the knitting one). -ish because I wanted to write that but something came up instead & I should really be either finishing my articles or going to sleep so I ended up writing something that isn't related to comres. I can't wait for finals week to be over ;A;
Also, that last paragraph makes little sense to me, now that I'm re-reading it. Hahaha, oh well bowel. Enjoy the ride:
--
"..no idea what's happening to him, poor dear. I've heard nothing but cussing coming from his room."
John paused as he took off his coat. He had recently developed a habit of tuning out Mrs. Hudson whenever it came to expressing concern on whatever the hell Sherlock was up to (like the times she had told him of the banging (gun to the wall), the screeching (violin after one of Mycroft's visits), the smells (experiment on dog feces) or the skull). Cursing, however-- John hadn't heard Sherlock curse, unless the situation dictated otherwise. The detective thought it was boring and a complete waste of breathe when one could invest it in some more cleverly designed insult. John could see why this would bother their landlady.
"How long has be been up there Mrs. Hudson?" John probed gently, as he took a hold of her arm, led her back to her living room and settled her on the couch. He sat on the arm rest, hands crossed over his chest, body trained on the stairwell even as his eyes were still on Mrs. Hudson.
"A little bit after lunch, I'm pretty sure of it," she answered thoughtfully. She tapped her lips with a finger and her eyebrows were furrowed as she tried to recall what seemed like important detail.
Directly upstairs, John heard Sherlock yell shit. What made his eyebrow raise in curiosity was the voice that followed. It was faint but undeniably female, definitely. She wasn't talking in a dangerous tone, but it did sound irked. And, now that John thought about it, familiar. He can't quite put his finger on it but--
"Oh yes! He has someone over." Mrs. Hudson nodded at the female voice. "Came earlier this afternoon. I didn't really see her. With All My Love was on and you know how I love it when Rodrigo takes his shirt off for Xander and--" John interrupted her with a cough.
"Uhm, yeah Mrs. Hudson, you may want to skip that bit." John was never going to get over that fact that sweet, kind, 'angel cakes on Sunday' and 'Don't go into those dingy clubs!' Mrs. Hudson got excited about all those BDSM things.
"Right, right, sorry John. I forget you're not Sherlock," she told him, patting his knee (Also another thing John was never going to get over: that Sherlock indulges Mrs. Hudson's, erm, hobbies and provides her with the occasional tape). "I heard someone knocking but when I had gone out to answer it, Sherlock was already whisking her away. Neither of them saw me but given that Sherlock looked all hush hush about it, I thought that was rather the point."
"I see," John commented, uncrossing his arms. Perhaps nothing to be afraid of then.
"Although," Mrs. Hudson added. "I was able to get a quick glance at her. Oddly enough, I thought she was you."
John froze. What? WHAT? He had heard that comment too many times during family reunions, in school and on first dates. He ignored Mrs. Hudson's disappointed tone and clenched his left hand.
"Mrs. Hudson, why do you say that?" he asked calmly, trying not to let fear bile up his throat. Part of him wanted to dash into Sherlock's room, just so he could prove to Mrs. Hudson that, yeah, no, can't be!
"She has your hair, dear. Exactly like it, perhaps a little longer though." Mrs. Hudson waved her hands somewhere roughly just bellow her own short curls to indicate how short. "She was also wearing that jumper you also own-- that brown knotty one."
Oh Christ. It isn't--
"But she was taller than you, so that wasn't definitely you I figured."
But it is. Only one person fitted that description and John had been dreading this day since he started blogging about his life with Sherlock.
Upstairs, Sherlock let out another yell followed by more cursing.
"Sorry Mrs. Hudson. I've got to check what Sherlock is up to," John excused himself, bolted up and turned to leave the room.
"Boys. Always dashing about," Mrs. Hudson murmured to herself as she glanced up at her ceiling. Whatever was Sherlock up to, Mrs. Hudson hoped that this time, she'd get rest in the evening.
--
He did not come home from an early end to his shift just to find out that Sherlock had done something to his sister-- or worse, that he was collaborating with her. He didn't bother wondering how Sherlock had managed to contact Harry, considering they hadn't yet spoken a word to each other, over the phone, online, in real life or otherwise.
Quickly, John took the stairs two steps at a time. By the time he had reached Sherlock's room, he was panting quite a bit and had to give himself a moment to breathe and stretch out his leg (damn his leg!) before rattling the doorknob. Locked. Of course.
"Sherlock!" he called out, banging on the door. On the other side, he heard something fall to the floor. "Open the door! I know who you have in there!"
"Fuck." He heard Sherlock curse, which still came as a surprise, despite Mrs. Hudson's warning. "He's here already." He told Harry, no doubt.
"No shit Sherlock." Harry's muffled voice came out unimpressed. John bit down a grin. He had always wanted Sherlock to meet Harry, if only to see how Sherlock would react to someone so immune to his intelligence.
"Open the door or I swear I'll knock it down, you know I can!" Actually, he couldn't and he didn't know if Sherlock knew that either. Silence blanketed them for a split second before Harry's making some whispering sound, which irritated John.
"Shut up John! A barrier does not prevent me from knowing how annoyingly too much you're thinking!" he hears Sherlock from the inside and, fuck it, his sister was in there and if he wasn't going to answer, he might as well try to break down the door. Ready? John backs up and steadies his arm. Okay... go!
Except the door opened. John blinked in surprises, but couldn't stop running and ended up stumbling onto the floor. He groaned and brought his head up to see Harry peering at him, too close for his comfort as always.
"Well John, you're looking better," she said stiffly. Her fingers played with the hem of her jumper (the way she did when she tried not to take her anger out on people)-- yes, it was like the brown, knotty one, as Mrs. Hudson described it. They had gotten matching jumpers before John had left for Afghanistan. They were both pissed, Harry wanted them to have something to remember the other and at that time, John had 40 quid, although up until today, neither of them could recall how he had gotten that. John wore his from time to time because, even though his relationship with his sister had been rocky since he left for the war, he still missed her. He just hadn't realized she felt the same way.
"Hello Harry," he greeted a bit weakly. He grasped the arm reaching out to him and she helped him stand, not letting go until it didn't look like John was going to collapse.
"You always had a way with words. No wonder the ladies can't keep themselves off you," she drawled out and John found that he wanted to hug his sister then rough house with her for that comment, the way they used to when they were kids.
"I give up, just so you know." She sounded exasperated. John blinked in confusion once again. "All afternoon, I thought I'd get something through his head." She gestured back to the bed, presumably where Sherlock was but John couldn't see much because a) taller sister (which, John still believed, was not fair because he was older) and b) the last time he saw Harry, they were fighting about Clara and Harry was calling him a dirty sock so the sight of her sober and, well, civil, was the only thing he could bother to look at.
"He's all yours," she said as she grabbed her purse from the chair by the door. "I don't know why you think so highly of him, John. Not as smart as you type."
He took a step forward but was stopped by her raised hand.
"No, you go help him, poor fellow. I'll see myself out. Call me this time?" she added hopefully, looking back into the room and John nodded without really knowing he did it because his thoughts were starting to turn to Sherlock once again.
--
Sherlock was a mess. He looked like he opened a can of soup but instead of cream of mushroom, a massive jumble of yarn had jumped at him. The man himself was staring helplessly at his pile. He was also hiding something behind his back.
"Let me guess. You wanted to test the psychological results on kidnapping one's sibling. Harry didn't like it one bit and tried to strangle you with-- is this knitting yarn?" John made a grab at the material but Sherlock swatted his hands away.
"What I do in my time is my business John." Sherlock tried to go with irritated but John was not buying it.
"Not when it involves my sister!" he argued. "Now let me see what that is so I can tell you that you do not mix experiments with household appliances and sulk at you."
Sherlock opened his mouth and looked like he was about to reveal the big secret.
"No," the detective said instead. "I suppose not."
Then Sherlock reluctantly took out what he was hiding and held it out, half like a child expecting praise for cookies made out of Play Dough or mud pie made out of mud and half like a boy not knowing what to give the girl he has a crush on and ripped off the first flower he could find.
What he presented however, looked nothing like pretend cookies or mud pies or even like the wilting daisy John had tried to give Susie Warner when he was eight and all he knew was that boys gave girls they like flowers. What Sherlock presented was a blob of yarn, mushed together to be a super yarn thing. The crochet hooks were still sticking out of what looked like a sleeve. John suddenly days when he was younger, when he was forced to learn how to knit with his mother because Harry got the hang of it quickly and would leave to study in the library when John knew all she did there was get acquainted with the female anatomy.
"I had enlisted Harriet's help so I could learn how to knit," Sherlock droned in his usual bored tone. John was getting better at reading Sherlock though and knew that he was nervous by the way he gnawed his bottom lip.
"Is this suppose to be a--?"
"A scarf? Yes," Sherlock quickly supplied. "Honestly John. Harriet informed me that you have been doing this long before you went to war. It shouldn't be hard to forget the pattern."
Honestly Sherlock. How did you manage to give a scarf a sleeve? John wanted to shoot back but stopped himself. Instead, he gingerly got the scarf and ran his fingers through it, relishing at the familiar feel of stitches. He hummed, approvingly, remembering how mummy used to encourage him despite his shit first attempt to make a doily.
"I wanted to make you one because it was starting to get colder," Sherlock added, more quietly this time.
And oh. OH, now John got it. He sat himself beside his friend, still fingering the unfinished product. Given Harriet's temper and Sherlock's impatience with mundane, John wasn't surprised that all they managed was cotton blob.
"If you want," John said, taking out the hooks from where they were sticking out. "I could help you. Harry's a horrible teacher anyway," he added with a grin.
He counted it as a victory when Sherlock returned his smile, which always looked huge (and lit up his entire face) but to John always felt shy because Sherlock rarely smiled like that and when he did, it was because he was genuinely pleased and not just being condescending or almighty with his intellect.
"All right," Sherlock agreed. "Maybe we can even make matching ones."
Characters: John, Sherlock, Harry, Mrs. Hudson
Pairings: In my head, this is John/Sherlock but can be taken as gen
Disclaimer: I'll leave Sherlock to the wonderful hands of ACD, Gatiss & Moffat :3
Summary: John assumes the worst when he figures Sherlock has his sister in the detective's room.
Inspired-ish by sadynax 's art (the knitting one). -ish because I wanted to write that but something came up instead & I should really be either finishing my articles or going to sleep so I ended up writing something that isn't related to comres. I can't wait for finals week to be over ;A;
Also, that last paragraph makes little sense to me, now that I'm re-reading it. Hahaha, oh well bowel. Enjoy the ride:
--
"..no idea what's happening to him, poor dear. I've heard nothing but cussing coming from his room."
John paused as he took off his coat. He had recently developed a habit of tuning out Mrs. Hudson whenever it came to expressing concern on whatever the hell Sherlock was up to (like the times she had told him of the banging (gun to the wall), the screeching (violin after one of Mycroft's visits), the smells (experiment on dog feces) or the skull). Cursing, however-- John hadn't heard Sherlock curse, unless the situation dictated otherwise. The detective thought it was boring and a complete waste of breathe when one could invest it in some more cleverly designed insult. John could see why this would bother their landlady.
"How long has be been up there Mrs. Hudson?" John probed gently, as he took a hold of her arm, led her back to her living room and settled her on the couch. He sat on the arm rest, hands crossed over his chest, body trained on the stairwell even as his eyes were still on Mrs. Hudson.
"A little bit after lunch, I'm pretty sure of it," she answered thoughtfully. She tapped her lips with a finger and her eyebrows were furrowed as she tried to recall what seemed like important detail.
Directly upstairs, John heard Sherlock yell shit. What made his eyebrow raise in curiosity was the voice that followed. It was faint but undeniably female, definitely. She wasn't talking in a dangerous tone, but it did sound irked. And, now that John thought about it, familiar. He can't quite put his finger on it but--
"Oh yes! He has someone over." Mrs. Hudson nodded at the female voice. "Came earlier this afternoon. I didn't really see her. With All My Love was on and you know how I love it when Rodrigo takes his shirt off for Xander and--" John interrupted her with a cough.
"Uhm, yeah Mrs. Hudson, you may want to skip that bit." John was never going to get over that fact that sweet, kind, 'angel cakes on Sunday' and 'Don't go into those dingy clubs!' Mrs. Hudson got excited about all those BDSM things.
"Right, right, sorry John. I forget you're not Sherlock," she told him, patting his knee (Also another thing John was never going to get over: that Sherlock indulges Mrs. Hudson's, erm, hobbies and provides her with the occasional tape). "I heard someone knocking but when I had gone out to answer it, Sherlock was already whisking her away. Neither of them saw me but given that Sherlock looked all hush hush about it, I thought that was rather the point."
"I see," John commented, uncrossing his arms. Perhaps nothing to be afraid of then.
"Although," Mrs. Hudson added. "I was able to get a quick glance at her. Oddly enough, I thought she was you."
John froze. What? WHAT? He had heard that comment too many times during family reunions, in school and on first dates. He ignored Mrs. Hudson's disappointed tone and clenched his left hand.
"Mrs. Hudson, why do you say that?" he asked calmly, trying not to let fear bile up his throat. Part of him wanted to dash into Sherlock's room, just so he could prove to Mrs. Hudson that, yeah, no, can't be!
"She has your hair, dear. Exactly like it, perhaps a little longer though." Mrs. Hudson waved her hands somewhere roughly just bellow her own short curls to indicate how short. "She was also wearing that jumper you also own-- that brown knotty one."
Oh Christ. It isn't--
"But she was taller than you, so that wasn't definitely you I figured."
But it is. Only one person fitted that description and John had been dreading this day since he started blogging about his life with Sherlock.
Upstairs, Sherlock let out another yell followed by more cursing.
"Sorry Mrs. Hudson. I've got to check what Sherlock is up to," John excused himself, bolted up and turned to leave the room.
"Boys. Always dashing about," Mrs. Hudson murmured to herself as she glanced up at her ceiling. Whatever was Sherlock up to, Mrs. Hudson hoped that this time, she'd get rest in the evening.
--
He did not come home from an early end to his shift just to find out that Sherlock had done something to his sister-- or worse, that he was collaborating with her. He didn't bother wondering how Sherlock had managed to contact Harry, considering they hadn't yet spoken a word to each other, over the phone, online, in real life or otherwise.
Quickly, John took the stairs two steps at a time. By the time he had reached Sherlock's room, he was panting quite a bit and had to give himself a moment to breathe and stretch out his leg (damn his leg!) before rattling the doorknob. Locked. Of course.
"Sherlock!" he called out, banging on the door. On the other side, he heard something fall to the floor. "Open the door! I know who you have in there!"
"Fuck." He heard Sherlock curse, which still came as a surprise, despite Mrs. Hudson's warning. "He's here already." He told Harry, no doubt.
"No shit Sherlock." Harry's muffled voice came out unimpressed. John bit down a grin. He had always wanted Sherlock to meet Harry, if only to see how Sherlock would react to someone so immune to his intelligence.
"Open the door or I swear I'll knock it down, you know I can!" Actually, he couldn't and he didn't know if Sherlock knew that either. Silence blanketed them for a split second before Harry's making some whispering sound, which irritated John.
"Shut up John! A barrier does not prevent me from knowing how annoyingly too much you're thinking!" he hears Sherlock from the inside and, fuck it, his sister was in there and if he wasn't going to answer, he might as well try to break down the door. Ready? John backs up and steadies his arm. Okay... go!
Except the door opened. John blinked in surprises, but couldn't stop running and ended up stumbling onto the floor. He groaned and brought his head up to see Harry peering at him, too close for his comfort as always.
"Well John, you're looking better," she said stiffly. Her fingers played with the hem of her jumper (the way she did when she tried not to take her anger out on people)-- yes, it was like the brown, knotty one, as Mrs. Hudson described it. They had gotten matching jumpers before John had left for Afghanistan. They were both pissed, Harry wanted them to have something to remember the other and at that time, John had 40 quid, although up until today, neither of them could recall how he had gotten that. John wore his from time to time because, even though his relationship with his sister had been rocky since he left for the war, he still missed her. He just hadn't realized she felt the same way.
"Hello Harry," he greeted a bit weakly. He grasped the arm reaching out to him and she helped him stand, not letting go until it didn't look like John was going to collapse.
"You always had a way with words. No wonder the ladies can't keep themselves off you," she drawled out and John found that he wanted to hug his sister then rough house with her for that comment, the way they used to when they were kids.
"I give up, just so you know." She sounded exasperated. John blinked in confusion once again. "All afternoon, I thought I'd get something through his head." She gestured back to the bed, presumably where Sherlock was but John couldn't see much because a) taller sister (which, John still believed, was not fair because he was older) and b) the last time he saw Harry, they were fighting about Clara and Harry was calling him a dirty sock so the sight of her sober and, well, civil, was the only thing he could bother to look at.
"He's all yours," she said as she grabbed her purse from the chair by the door. "I don't know why you think so highly of him, John. Not as smart as you type."
He took a step forward but was stopped by her raised hand.
"No, you go help him, poor fellow. I'll see myself out. Call me this time?" she added hopefully, looking back into the room and John nodded without really knowing he did it because his thoughts were starting to turn to Sherlock once again.
--
Sherlock was a mess. He looked like he opened a can of soup but instead of cream of mushroom, a massive jumble of yarn had jumped at him. The man himself was staring helplessly at his pile. He was also hiding something behind his back.
"Let me guess. You wanted to test the psychological results on kidnapping one's sibling. Harry didn't like it one bit and tried to strangle you with-- is this knitting yarn?" John made a grab at the material but Sherlock swatted his hands away.
"What I do in my time is my business John." Sherlock tried to go with irritated but John was not buying it.
"Not when it involves my sister!" he argued. "Now let me see what that is so I can tell you that you do not mix experiments with household appliances and sulk at you."
Sherlock opened his mouth and looked like he was about to reveal the big secret.
"No," the detective said instead. "I suppose not."
Then Sherlock reluctantly took out what he was hiding and held it out, half like a child expecting praise for cookies made out of Play Dough or mud pie made out of mud and half like a boy not knowing what to give the girl he has a crush on and ripped off the first flower he could find.
What he presented however, looked nothing like pretend cookies or mud pies or even like the wilting daisy John had tried to give Susie Warner when he was eight and all he knew was that boys gave girls they like flowers. What Sherlock presented was a blob of yarn, mushed together to be a super yarn thing. The crochet hooks were still sticking out of what looked like a sleeve. John suddenly days when he was younger, when he was forced to learn how to knit with his mother because Harry got the hang of it quickly and would leave to study in the library when John knew all she did there was get acquainted with the female anatomy.
"I had enlisted Harriet's help so I could learn how to knit," Sherlock droned in his usual bored tone. John was getting better at reading Sherlock though and knew that he was nervous by the way he gnawed his bottom lip.
"Is this suppose to be a--?"
"A scarf? Yes," Sherlock quickly supplied. "Honestly John. Harriet informed me that you have been doing this long before you went to war. It shouldn't be hard to forget the pattern."
Honestly Sherlock. How did you manage to give a scarf a sleeve? John wanted to shoot back but stopped himself. Instead, he gingerly got the scarf and ran his fingers through it, relishing at the familiar feel of stitches. He hummed, approvingly, remembering how mummy used to encourage him despite his shit first attempt to make a doily.
"I wanted to make you one because it was starting to get colder," Sherlock added, more quietly this time.
And oh. OH, now John got it. He sat himself beside his friend, still fingering the unfinished product. Given Harriet's temper and Sherlock's impatience with mundane, John wasn't surprised that all they managed was cotton blob.
"If you want," John said, taking out the hooks from where they were sticking out. "I could help you. Harry's a horrible teacher anyway," he added with a grin.
He counted it as a victory when Sherlock returned his smile, which always looked huge (and lit up his entire face) but to John always felt shy because Sherlock rarely smiled like that and when he did, it was because he was genuinely pleased and not just being condescending or almighty with his intellect.
"All right," Sherlock agreed. "Maybe we can even make matching ones."